Celia slipped her sketchbook behind a pillow and pulled over her tambour frame; Clarence liked her embroidery. Once, he had begged permission to bring her new piece out with him. Celia never knew what revelries and bawdy houses her embroidered picture had visited, but Clarence returned it in pristine condition, delighted that he had received two-and-forty compliments on her behalf.
Celia made sure her smile was as sweet as ever.
“You’ve been driving with Lord Edmund?” Clarence barely waited until greetings were over, his tone so terse it was barely a question.
“Yes.” Celia pulled her needle, feeling off-kilter. “And Mr. Cade as well, and walking with—”
“And you saw him at the Johnsons last night?”
How could her younger brother make her feel so small and helpless? Celia nodded, trying not to shrink under his scrutiny.
“Hmph.” Clarence strode to the window.
Celia prepared her peaceful expression as he glowered at the birds instead of her. He was merely trying to take care of her.
“Aunt took us to the National Gallery this morning.” If she kept her mouth in a smile, her words came out even and cheerful. “We encountered Mr. Cade in the second room, and he took my arm through the rest of the gallery.”
“Driving as well?” Clarence turned from the window, his expression now more thoughtful than angry.
“Yes…” Celia’s voice turned up in a question, despite herself.
“He should talk to me if he has designs on you,” Clarence snapped.
“We are still getting to know each other,” Celia began tentatively, “but I—I think he has, um, ideas of getting to that point.”
She had meant to say, “I am nearly positive he will talk with you soon,” but as soon as she thought the words they sounded too bold. Besides, Cade seemed like a careful man, not one to rush into conversations with male relatives.
Clarence drummed his fingers on the windowsill, lips pursed.
“Six gentlemen asked for my company after the Merriweather’s ball.” Celia attempted her aunt’s upbeat tone. Two of them only invited her along so they could spend time with Rose and Henrietta, but that would not help her case right now. After all, the three gentlemen from Lord Francis’s party had all come through.
“Six? We are not talking about six gentlemen.” Clarence’s tone was scathing, and Celia was flabbergasted. She thought that was exactly what they were discussing.
Clarence began to pace, pressing his fingers together in a gesture that almost seemed nervous. “We are talking about Lord Edmund.”
“Oh.” Celia watched him go back and forth, her needle sagging.
She tried to appreciate Lord Edmund’s good qualities, she really did. So far, her list included that he had a good hand on the reins and did not dress in black. She felt certain that if she got to know him well enough, eventually more virtues would become apparent, but Marianne had laughed when she said as much.
Clarence spun towards Celia and ticked off his fingers. “He has plenty of income, both family fortune and his own investments. House in the country. Title comparable to your own.”
The house was not a virtue; it was a bare necessity.
“I do not believe we will suit,” she said, slowly.
“What? You barely know the fellow!”
“Very true.” Celia took another stitch, sliding the tip of her needle to nestle the colors properly. But he sat too close, and he didn’t listen to anything she said, and when Rose accompanied them for propriety’s sake, he treated her like a companion rather than their social equal—not that Celia would have treated even the most impoverished relative with such disdain.
“Our aunt said you are attending the Huntingdon’s soiree tonight. Edmund will be there, and he will be looking for you. Mind you sit with him, and find something about him that willsuit.”
Celia swallowed hard and nodded.
“Very well.” Clarence was appeased. “I don’t mean to sound harsh with you; I know you are a good girl and will do as your aunt and I ask.”
“Of course,” Celia murmured, wondering where on earth he had gotten that idea.
“My mind is merely occupied with other matters.” Clarence scowled, then fussed with his tie pin.
